


Trigger

by dorbee, Monocerotis



Series: The Blind Leading the Blind [1]
Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Implied Bill Cipher/Ford Pines, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-07
Updated: 2021-01-07
Packaged: 2021-03-17 22:28:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,395
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28607535
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dorbee/pseuds/dorbee, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Monocerotis/pseuds/Monocerotis
Summary: Fiddleford McGucket questions how much longer Stanford's "muse" can toy with their lives. Left to his own devices, he hatches a plan to stop the madness.
Relationships: Bill Cipher & Fiddleford H. McGucket, Fiddleford H. McGucket/Ford Pines
Series: The Blind Leading the Blind [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2096208
Comments: 3
Kudos: 12





	Trigger

Religion has never been a comfortable subject for Fiddleford. As a man of science, he struggles to reconcile his “backwater” beliefs with the demonstrable, concrete truths of the empirical world. After all, the burden of proof lies with the claimant, not the detractors. At the best of times, he separates the moral fiber of his upbringing from the fire and brimstone it’s packaged in. At worst, he clings to his devotion as his only salvation from the mortal peril that surrounds him. But if there’s one thing that tests his faith more than anything, it’s that infernal triangle.

_There has to be some way I can banish Bill, once and for all,_ he thinks, halting his typing mid-keystroke. His mind never used to wander this much when cataloging. _If the second journal tells you how to bring him here, maybe there’s a way to keep him out?_ Journal 2 happens to rest not a foot from his hand. The temptation grows difficult to resist. _Maybe I could even get it done before Stanford’s back._

Before Fiddleford has a chance to peek into the private tome, the color drains from the room and a thin black hand slams over his. The blue flame glows but doesn’t burn—yet.

“OH, HOW STANFORD WOULD DESPISE HIS GREATEST HUMAN ALLY DOING THE _ONE_ THING HE’S BEEN ASKED NOT TO!” Bill begins hovering over Fiddleford’s computer, arms raised, staring down. “YOU GUYS ARE SO FALLIBLE. YOU LOVE THE MAN, BUT WHEN FACED WITH COMPETITION, YOU BREAK LIKE THAT!” He snaps his fingers. “IT WOULD BE FUNNY WERE IT NOT PATHETIC! OF COURSE, THAT’S ALL ASSUMING YOU _WERE_ GOING AFTER THE BOOK. TELL ME THE TRUTH, JUDAS.”

Fiddleford shivers, holding up his arms as if any physical force could protect him from Bill. “Get back, you wretched beast!” he spits. “You said it yourself. I’m finally puttin’ my foot down and kickin’ you outta this dimension! By God, if it’s the last thing I do, I will _end you!_ ” His thoughts haven’t been spared a mote of privacy—no reason to keep hiding them. Emboldened by his outburst, Fiddleford makes another, more blatant grab at the journal. Bill snatches his hand, enveloping it in fire and bending his fingers back far— _too_ far. Now it does burn. Only biting his tongue keeps Fiddleford from squealing like butchered livestock, writhing in Bill’s grasp as he tries to yank himself free. _The fire’s not real, the burning is an illusion, it’ll all be over when you wake up._ His frantic attempts to reassure himself overlap and echo.

Bill cackles. “EVEN IF YOU COULD STOP ME, YOU’D NEVER FIND THE ANSWER IN FORDSY’S NOTES.” He telekinetically flips through the journal, ending on two pages dense with code. “OF COURSE, I KNOW WHAT THAT SAYS—DON’T EVEN HAVE TO LOOK! AND THERE’S NO USE DE _CIPHER_ ING IT. AFTER ALL, SIXER MADE IT SPECIAL FOR YOU! MIGHTY DISTRUSTFUL OF HIM, BUT I GUESS IT WAS JUSTIFIED.” He tsks. “I THOUGHT BETTER OF YA, HADRON COLLIDER.”

“You told him to do that, devil! You tricked him, convinced him—” a vision of Ford with slitted pupils and glowing sclera rushes to the forefront of his memory “—controlled him, even! I’ve seen you possessin’ him, I _seen_ it!”

Bill feigns a gasp. “OH NO, YOU’VE CAUGHT ME! YOU’VE SEEN THROUGH MY FUNNY LITTLE GAME! CURSES AND DAMNATION, WHATEVER WILL I DO?” He holds a hand to his "forehead” and pauses a moment before laughing and rotating 360 degrees. “WHAT I’VE BEEN DOING, YOU OAF IN SMART CLOTHING! IN WHAT WORLD, WHAT DIMENSION, WOULD STANFORD PINES BELIEVE _YOU_ OVER _ME_ ? TELL HIM I TRICKED HIM AND YOU’RE THE TRICKY ONE, TELL HIM HE WAS POSSESSED AND HE’LL TELL YOU HE _WANTED IT_.” Bill blinks out of existence—a moment later, Journal 2 closes, and he’s sitting atop it. “FACE IT—YOU’RE THE COW, I’M THE TRAIN, AND SIXER’S THE ENGINEER. YOU’RE DONE FOR!”

“Well, this cow’s gonna kick your caboose, Cipher!” Fiddleford declares, blood thundering through his ears like stampeding cattle. He slips a hand inside his jacket and pulls the Memory Gun from its holster. “One blast from this and Stanford’ll forget you forever. Everything you’ve said and done to him, every thought he’s ever had about you, I can erase in an _instant!_ ” He begs his arms not to tremble. “All I have to do is pull the trigger when he opens that door.”

Bill’s eye cannot express condescension more clearly. “A PITY YOU’RE TOO TRAUMATIZED TO CONSIDER THE CONSEQUENCES OF YOUR ACTIONS!” he says, shrugging. “THAT MEMORY GUN OF YOURS IS BAD NEWS. TAKING ME OUT OF FORD’S BRAIN WOULD TURN HIS NEURONS TO CONFETTI!” He disappears, and before Fiddleford can react, a whisper fills his skull. “HOW’S YOUR BRAIN DOING, PONDSCUM? YOU’RE A DAILY USER, RIGHT? TOO MUCH OF A GOOD THING’LL _DESTROY YOU!_ ” Those last two words are sickeningly sing-song.

“You’re lying!” Fiddleford snaps. His head whips about the room in search of Bill, pointing his weapon every which way. “Why should I believe you when all you’ve brought me is misery? You’re half the reason I need this damn thing so much and you know it!” He backs up to a wall, hoping it’ll keep the wicked spirit from creeping up on him. It only makes him feel cornered.

“BELIEVE THIS, BOY BLUNDER!” His voice is booming to the point of near-inaudibility. It all goes silent as Bill appears on the wall behind Fiddleford, like a poster. “ON WHAT GREGORIAN MONTH, DAY, AND YEAR DID YOU MARRY YOUR _SWEETHEART_ EMMA-MAY?”

Fiddleford is light on his feet as he pivots away from his two-dimensional tormentor. All the quick reflexes in the world can’t prepare him for the blank his mind draws at Bill’s question.

“It… i-it was… we were…” In an act of betrayal by his body against his dignity, hot tears well up and flow down his cheeks. If it weren’t for its sturdy construction, he might crumple the Memory Gun’s handle in his vice grip. Slamming his traitorous eyes shut and raising his free hand to the Lord, he quakes with all the fervor he has left. “God _damn_ you!” 

“GOD DAMN WHO? NO ONE TO BLAME BUT YOU, BUCKAROO! DRY THOSE TEARS, IT’S NOT BECOMING OF A WEAK-JAWED MAN.” He pops off the wall, flicks Fiddleford’s nose, blinks away, and reappears on the laptop screen. Fiddleford stomps over, slamming it shut with more force than he’d ever apply in the physical realm. It doesn’t make him feel better, and it doesn’t stop him from crying. He whimpers, closing his eyes again before Bill reappears somewhere else.

“You’ve taken everything from me—my memories, my relationships, my—my _sanity_ . But I won’t let you take Stanford, I-I won’t!” With a choked sob, his knees buckle and send him crashing to the floor. _I can’t._

Of course, Bill needn’t say much when Fiddleford is at his lowest. But he does.

“YOU’LL DIE TRYING.” The voice comes from deep in his victim’s brain, loud and blaring, deafening without a sound. Then there’s silence. Long, arduous silence. Waiting for the other shoe to drop.

The door opens.

“What on Earth happened here?”

Fiddleford gasps and jerks his head up at the familiar voice. “St-Stanford!” He scrabbles toward his partner on all fours, clinging to his coat for dear life. “Stanford, it was that—that so-called _muse_ of yours. The whole time you were gone, he—he told me—”

Ford is more uncomfortable than sympathetic. “Fiddleford, is this more about Bill? If I’ve told you once I’ve told you a thousand times, my work with my muse is nothing for you to concern yourself with! Especially this much concern!” He drops the documents he’s carrying on a nearby table, attempting to pry Fiddleford off him. “And since when did Bill talk to _you?_ ”

Fiddleford nearly tears his hair out. “He tortured me!” he screams, shaking Ford by his shoulders. “He’s no muse, he’s a monster, and he’s usin’ you for somethin’ terrible, why—why can’t you _see it!?_ ” He lets out a cry of pain.

Ford is visibly conflicted at Fiddleford’s emotional display, but in the end, he knows who he should trust. He always does. “I can’t see what isn’t there, Fiddleford! The only evidence I have to suggest Bill could be leading me astray comes from your word of mouth. Meanwhile, I have mountains of personal experience contrary to your... wild delusions!” He finally pushes Fiddleford away, walking past with his arms crossed behind his back. He glances to the side—to the closed computer, and the disturbed journal. His eyes narrow. “Don’t let those delusions lead you to any rash decisions, Fiddleford.”

Those words flip a switch in Fiddleford’s mind. All the panic and paranoia melts away. His hyperventilation ceases, his eyes no longer bugging out of their sockets. He nods, shuffling to the open door, still hunched in defeat. “I won’t,” he lies. Staring down at the Memory Gun during the three steps he takes towards the exit, he manages to type in BILL CIPHER. _God, have mercy on my soul, or else have mercy on his._ He makes the sign of the cross, turns to Stanford, and pulls the trigger.

Ford doesn’t realize what’s hit him—all he can tell is the world has fallen apart in an instant. His vision is glitch and static, all he smells is burning, all he hears is screaming, howling. He clutches his head and falls to his knees. The screaming rises in volume until it suddenly stops, replaced by a feeling he can describe only one way. In college, he tore his pectoral muscle trying to show off his bench press to a cute boy. He dropped the bar to his chest and felt it tear in two like newspapers. It’s that exact feeling, but a million times over, and happening to his brain.

_I’m going to die._

White consumes his vision as his eyes dart around the room. He reaches a hand back to his assistant, but the mere motion drives him out of consciousness. Before his body can hit the ground, time freezes. The room is black and white. Ford’s eyes, halfway rolled back in his skull, turn to glowing pools of pure yellow. From those pools, brick by brick, emerges Bill Cipher.

“I’M PERPETUALLY IMPRESSED BY THE DEPTHS OF YOUR IDIOCY!” he says, in his typical chipper tone—though he’s not happy at all. He looks down at Ford and tips his hat, saddened if only for a moment. “IT WAS AN HONOR TO BE SERVED BY YOU.” His eye darts back to Fiddleford. “AND I’M SURE YOU’LL BE JUST AS HONORED TO SERVE YOUR COLLEGE FLING. I MEANT WHAT I SAID ABOUT SHREDDING NEURONS _QUITE_ LITERALLY! FIXING THIS MESS’LL TAKE SOME HEAVY LIFTING—OF COURSE, THAT ALL ASSUMES YOU’RE PLANNING TO HELP AT ALL. I KNOW IT’S NOT MY PLACE TO SPEAK, BUT WOULDN’T THAT BE THE _CHRISTIAN_ THING TO DO?” He comes within inches of Fiddleford’s face. “I THINK AN ARTIST WOULD FIND GREAT MEANING IN CROSSING THYSELF BEFORE DESTROYING A NICE JEWISH BOY WHO JUST WANTED TO ENLIGHTEN YOU! SOMETHING TO CHEW ON, BYYYYYEEEEE!” He lunges toward—through?—Fiddleford’s head. A moment later, color returns to the room, and Ford collapses.

Fiddleford stands there, frozen, dumbfounded, clutching his weapon with white knuckles. A dull buzz permeates his skull, drowning out all thought. It’s only when it fades away that he comprehends what he’s done. He loses his grip on the blaster, its bulb shattering on the ground as he falls to his knees. “St-Stanford?” He drags himself towards the unconscious heap in front of him. Attempts to hold Ford upright are fruitless—he can’t support the larger man’s weight. “Stanford, please answer me, this—this can’t be, it has to be another one of his tricks—”

_EVEN I WOULDN’T DREAM UP A LIE THAT CRUEL, YOU APPALACHIAN AIRHEAD!_

The sudden shout startles Fiddleford enough to make him jump, but Ford hardly stirs.

“What in tarnation—”

_YEAH, WHEN I SAID “BYE,” I MEANT “SEE YA LATER!” 23 SECONDS LATER! I WANTED TO GIVE YOU THE ILLUSION OF RELIEF BEFORE RIPPING IT OUT OF YOUR MISERABLE HANDS! HAVE FUN TRYING TO FOCUS ON ANYTHING YOUR BOYFRIEND SAYS WHILE I’M AROUND!_

Jeering, obnoxious laughter layers over and over itself. Fiddleford doesn’t have the wherewithal to scream. He’s so preoccupied with his living nightmare he doesn’t notice Ford waking up.

The dark seems a bit too bright for him as he lolls his head from side to side, taking in the strange environment. Is it some kind of security room or basement? That could explain the lack of light or windows. Where is he? An entire minute passes before he realizes he’s not lying on the floor, or against the wall—he’s cradled in a man’s arms. He smiles, because it’s comfortable, but stops when he realizes he has no idea who it is. He looks up at the stranger. “Who do you—what—how am I—” he purses his lips, reaching up and tapping his potential captor on the shoulder. Only then does Fiddleford realize that Ford is conscious. He looks down at him with a smile wider than an open sky, and—

The man looking back at Fiddleford is a stranger. Lost to the world.

His face crumples as he pulls Ford closer. His embrace is loose and fragile and powerful all at the same time. “I-I, I am, _so_ sorry,” he whispers, almost inaudible. “I’m sorry, Ford, I didn’t know, I—”

_DIDN’T KNOW WHAT WOULD HAPPEN? I TOLD YOU IN NO UNCERTAIN TERMS WHAT WOULD HAPPEN! DON’T TELL ME YOU’RE ALREADY LYING TO HIM._

_Quiet, damn you._

Ford is cautious to accept the hug, but given a few seconds, he does. He even pats the man on the back a few times. He seems so upset—Ford starts to worry. Has something gone wrong? Was he involved? Could that be an explanation for how he’s found himself in this room? “Sorry,” he repeats. “I don’t know... you. I don’t know you.” He sighs with relief, a single spark flying in his brain as he gets a coherent thought across.

The statement isn’t unexpected, but hearing it out loud shatters Fiddleford’s heart. A lump in his throat prevents him from speaking for a few moments—which Bill refuses to squander.

_YEAH, GOOD LUCK TRYING TO PUT THIS GUY BACK TOGETHER WHEN HE DOESN’T EVEN REMEMBER YOUR NAME!_

“I’m…” his first attempt trails off into nothingness, so he takes a deep breath and tries again. “I’m Fiddleford. Fiddleford McGucket. I-I’m your—”

_COWORKER? PARTNER? LOVER? SO MANY OPTIONS!_

“…Friend.”

_AND YOU PICKED THE MOST BORING ONE. UGH._

Ford almost snickers at the sheer length of the name but knows that’s rude and holds it back. It’s the assertion that this man is his friend that intrigues him. He laughs uncomfortably. “If you’re my friend, why don’t I know you?” He pushes away from Fiddleford and attempts to stand. Within seconds he winces, rubbing his temple and falling to one knee. “Holy Moses, I’m out of it. This just won’t do, this won’t do, won’t do,” the words repeat until they’re little more than noise. No amount of rubbing soothes his aching cranium.

Fiddleford wants to answer Ford’s question, and be honest, but all he can do is gaze at the busted Memory Gun.

_YOU SHOULD PROBABLY STOP STAAARIIING—WHOOPS, TOO LATE!_

Bill’s right—by the time Fiddleford looks back to Ford, he’s transfixed on the gun and approaches it.

It’s a strange little device that Ford cannot identify. It’s reminiscent of a science-fiction phaser, but it seems to be little more than scrap. He crouches, pauses, and slooooowly reaches out to touch it.

...

Yep. Harmless. Broken. He shrugs and looks back at Fiddleford. “It’s some kind of weapon, but it’s not in any state to hurt us now,” he says with a reassuring smile. “Don’t worry.”

_WOW, THAT’D BE HILARIOUS IF IT WASN’T SO—_

“SHUT UP!” Fiddleford screams, bringing his fists down hard enough to crack bedrock. He freezes a moment later, much as he did after shooting Stanford. “I—I wasn’t talkin’ to—” his pupils go pinpoint, and he buries his face in his hands, curling into a ball. His voice comes out weak and small. “Lord, help me.”

_GEEZ, HAVEN’T YOU FIGURED THE MAN UPSTAIRS ISN’T GONNA SAVE YOU? I MEAN, WHAT LOVING GOD WOULD LET ALL THIS HAPPEN?_

Ford doesn’t move a muscle as he bears witness to Fiddleford’s emotional breakdown. His chest is tight, and he can feel his pulse in his ears. "What’s going on?" he asks from a place of earnest terror.

Fiddleford peeks through his fingers at Ford, staring like a deer in headlights before dragging his hands down his cheeks. “Someone... tricked you,” he manages through clenched teeth. “You—you put your trust in—in a—”

_POLITE AND AFFABLE SOUL WHO ONLY WANTED TO HELP?_

“—someone who was gonna—”

_LIBERATE YOUR PLANE? TEACH YOU HOW TO ASCEND TO A HIGHER STATE OF REALITY?_

“—he was g-gonna end the world, Stanford, and I…” His head hangs low, and he manages to slump even more. “I had to. Stop you.”

Ford stares down at his hands, taking deep breaths in and out, trying to process it all. When he looks back up at Fiddleford, his gaze is stern. “What do you mean ‘stop me?’ And ending the world? I can’t—” he’s cut off by a high gasp as he clutches his head and bites his lip. “Thinking about it makes my head hurt. So does everything else. Bad sign.”

_FREE TIP FROM YOUR FRIENDLY NEIGHBORHOOD TRIANGLE: TRY BRINGING ME UP IN CONVERSATION! YOU’LL AWARD HIS NOGGIN ONE TICKET TO RIDE ON THE PAIN TRAIN!_

_You know I’d never speak of you again if I could help it._

“He was usin’ you to, to build somethin’.” He finally ekes out a few words after that excessive pause. “And I—I tried to tell you what it’d do, I did, but you… you wouldn’t listen to me!” Gripping his hair between his fingers, he tugs—it makes his eyes water. “I had no choice!”

_YOU COULD’VE ALWAYS LET ME WIN._

“No, I—I couldn’t let him win.”

The words are manic, evoking an image of the last resort—a trigger to hopefully always go unpulled… a trigger. Ford looks down at the broken phaser again, then back up at his… “friend.”

“Did you hurt me, Fiddleford?”

Those words finally break his will. He drops his face to the floor and lets it marinate in a puddle of his tears. He tries to speak, but no words leave his mouth—only the pained, guttural noises of an animal caught in a bear trap.

_SHEESH, NOD YOUR HEAD IF YOU CAN’T SAY ANYTHING!_

Fiddleford’s shaking too hard to do that.

_...OR SUFFER IN SILENCE. THAT WORKS TOO._

Ford has no idea what to do. He’s not even sure he knows this person, though he’s been very kind, and he claims to be a friend. Ford feels tears stinging his own eyes, though he doesn’t know why he’s sad. If anything, he’s scared. “Did… did _I_ hurt _you?_ ” he asks. “I must’ve hurt you. I need to leave.” He stands up and stumbles to the nearest door, keeping a healthy distance from Fiddleford. He’s mere feet away when he has to stop to lean against a wall. Why is the room spinning? Why are his ears ringing? Goddammit, what’s wrong with him!? He lets out a noise of abject childlike frustration and gives his head a few firm thumps against the wall.

_FIDDLESTICKS, WATCH YOUR SIX._

Fiddleford, once motionless save for violent trembling, whips around in time to see Ford’s head connect with concrete. He’s completely missed the escape attempt. “No, no, St-Stanford, don’t—” it’s like trying to pilot an unfamiliar machine as he limps his way over and pulls him from the wall. “You—you were right, I hurt you.” He’s quiet, trying to hold himself together—until he wails into Ford’s chest.

_“I destroyed your memory, Stanford!”_

Ford’s eyes widen. He’s completely frozen for several seconds before he stammers, “You... I... what?” His speech capabilities reduce to simple words flung out in desperate randomness. His mind is racing, trying to prove Fiddleford wrong. Sure, he couldn’t remember him, but he could remember...

Nothing. Each attempt to recall even the most basic memories is met with increasing pain in his skull. His mother’s face, his college graduation, his own goddamn name! Fiddleford just said it! Stanfred? Stanford? It was as remote to him as the name of a stranger. He clutches Fiddleford’s shoulders and looks down at him pleadingly.

“But Fiddleford, you’re my friend! You wouldn’t do that to me, I shouldn’t have even suggested it,” he says as if he’s trying to talk them both out of the nightmare. “I’m fine, I must’ve hit my head.” He’s cut off by a groan, weight falling into Fiddleford briefly before he catches himself. Fiddleford shakes his head.

“No, Ford, I—I was tryin’ to get rid of that—”

_WHAT’LL YA CALL ME NOW? I’M DYING TO KNOW!_

“—that monster, but it… it erased so much more, and, and—”

_AND WHAT? HUH? HUH?_

“Goddammit, he’s just in my head instead!” If Fiddleford’s nails were any sharper, he’d tear Ford’s clothes.

It takes Ford quite some time to interpret what Fiddleford is telling him. So, he erased _your_ memory, to get rid of a _monster_ , and now the monster… is in _his_ mind? He’s not sure if he’s buying it, but it could explain some things.

“A monster in your head...” Ford’s brow furrows as he pulls Fiddleford off of him, holding him at arm’s length and leaning down to look him in the eye. “Is that why you’ve been so—pardon my language, _vulnerable_ with me? Some kind of foul demon is hurting you?”

For the first time in this wretched night, Fiddleford nods aggressively.

“Th-that’s exactly it!” he stammers, adjusting his crooked glasses. “He was real friendly with you, but he—he don’t care much for me.”

_HEY, I ONLY THOUGHT YOU WERE ANNOYING BEFORE YOU PULLED THIS STUNT. NOW I’M WONDERING WHO THE REAL DEMON IS!_

Furrowing his brow with both frustration and anguish, he breaks eye contact with Ford. “I haven’t gotten a moment’s peace.”

Ford nods and starts pacing. “And all this started minutes ago? When you... you...” He growls and presses his fist to his forehead. “What did you do again?”

Fiddleford crumples against the wall in defeat, planting his palms on his temples. “Er-erased your memory of… him.”

_YUP, YOU’RE IN FOR A LOOOOOOOOOONG NIGHT. AND A LONG DAY AFTER THAT. AND A LONG DAY AFTER THAT, AND A LONG DAY AFTER—_

Ironically, Bill repeats it enough that it becomes easy to ignore.

Ford continues pacing, contemplating the story, looking for holes. He must account for any chance that Fiddleford is deceiving him. But, after several minutes of muttering thought, his voice is confident and clear. “I believe you. I believe that, through whatever means, you caused me to lose a significant portion of my... mind. To the ends of defeating it—him. Whoever that may be. And now he’s fallen upon you.” He steps up to Fiddleford with his arms crossed. Even standing over him, he looks small. “I’m believing you because I have nothing else to trust. Please don’t let me down.”

Powerless as Fiddleford feels, he forces himself to get up again just so he can wrap his arms around Ford. This embrace is much gentler than any he’s given before. “I swear I won’t,” he says, voice soft. “I’m sorry it came to this. Sorry I couldn’t find another way.”

_MORE LIKE COULDN’T WAIT FOR-_

**_Shut yer fuckin’ trap._ **

This time, it’s Fiddleford who thinks louder, drowning out Bill’s mental scream. When Bill doesn’t chime in again, Fiddleford’s shoulders ease, and he moves one of his hands down to hold Stanford’s. “I promise I’ll spend my whole life makin’ this up to you.”

Ford appreciates the hug, but the second gesture… well, he’s taken aback. He giggles as he pulls his hand away. “I don’t know you like that yet, Fiddleford,” he says. “But thank you.”

_TOLD YOU SAYING FRIEND WAS LAME—_

**_Still don’t need this!_ **

“W-well,” Fiddleford creaks, “I wasn’t… only your friend. B-but-” The tears he thought he’d finally overcome return with a vengeance. “If y-you don’t remember, that’s alright! I-I’ve always been… your f-friend. Always will be.”

It’s clear this is not alright—even someone in Ford’s state can figure out what’s going on. He looks down at Fiddleford, confused and apologetic, even a little… excited?

“Are you my, uh. Special someone?”

_...“SPECIAL SOMEONE?”_

_I don’t know either._

Fiddleford nods at Ford’s surprise acceptance, though he feels a pang of guilt for his family in Palo Alto. “You could say that.” As he rubs his elbows, the corners of his mouth prick up in the beginnings of a smile. “We got… awful close, workin’ out here as partners.”

“Where is here? We’re partners? What're we working on?” The questions tumble from Ford’s mouth, followed by some nonsensical phonemes strung together. He pauses, shaking his head and adjusting his glasses. “I don't mean to ask so many questions, but you keep introducing new ideas!”

The babble is worrying, but Ford seems to recover from it. “Why don’t we sit down and I’ll tell you everything I can?” Now, Fiddleford actually smiles, though it’s tinged with unshakeable concern. “I could even write it down for you to read over an’ keep in your pocket.”

_SON OF A BITCH, YOU’RE ACTUALLY GONNA TRY TO PULL THIS OFF, AREN’T YOU? DO YOU HUMANS EVER GIVE UP?_

_You should know that’s not my style, Cipher._

Gingerly, he offers a hand to Ford and nods towards the still-open door.

“I know just the place.”

Ford looks down at Fiddleford—his friend, a good man, someone he loves?—and takes his hand. Deep in the back of his mind, it registers as familiar. A faint smile crosses his lips. “Thank you,” he says. “For helping me in this way.”

Ford follows Fiddleford upstairs, led into a place unknown, but reminiscent of home.

  
His home?

Their home.

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first in a series of fics exploring the consequences of Fiddleford's decision. We call this AU The Blind Leading the Blind. We hope you enjoy it as much as we do.
> 
> \---
> 
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> BRXU ORYH IRU KLP LV DOO BRX’YH JRW  
> WKH SDWK DKHDG LV PRVW XQNLQG  
> VR PDNH D GHDO RU VWXPEOH EOLQG


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